


A Dragon for Merlin

by Doberler



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 04:51:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doberler/pseuds/Doberler
Summary: Arthur isn't able to lift Merlin's spirits after the dragon attack and gives him time off. Merlin returns home to deliver grave news, but he can't keep Arthur from going with him. Set at the end of Series 2.





	A Dragon for Merlin

“It’s three days’ journey, Merlin,” Arthur stated, pulling on his leather gloves. “The forest is crawling with bandits and the roads are just as treacherous with all the Spring flooding we’re having. You’ll be an easy target if you run into trouble. You can’t go alone.” As with all of their missions outside of the kingdom, the prince wore no Camelot colors or insignias though this time did wear an arming doublet under a blue linen shirt and his favorite long brown coat. They were venturing into enemy territory, he’d said earlier, and caution was a necessity.

Merlin truly appreciated when Arthur tried to be his protector: it was a testament of his fondness for a mere servant. Although sometimes, he found it amusing, if not annoying when the prince flaunted his fighting abilities and believed that Merlin was too weak to take care of himself. Now was one of those times and he genuinely didn’t want Arthur journeying with him to Ealdor, regardless of his perceived peril. He had a sensitive and private matter to discuss with his mother and it wasn’t going to be easy for either of them with an outsider lurking about.

“Your father needs you here,” Merlin tried softly once again to change the prince’s mind, checking the girth strap and dropping the flap over it. “And the city. There’s too much repair going on after the dragon attack for you to be absent.  And the search for Morgana: who’ll be leading that now?”

Arthur was on his horse now, his expression turning grim. “Good men are searching for her now, and we’ll join the effort upon our return. As for the city, father and his engineers can manage without me for a few days. Mount up, Merlin. Day’s breaking.”

Merlin clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, climbing onto the chestnut mare, wishing that Gwen had come along, too, now. At least she’d provide some sort of distraction for Arthur and keep him from prying into things that would lead to further heartache. Merlin groaned under his breath. He’d just have to do his best to keep his emotions in check and perform business as usual.

………………………..

Two days of forced normalcy from Merlin, and now the prince was worried. Try as he might to conceal his despair, Arthur had figured out weeks ago that Merlin was deeply troubled about something and so much that he needed to flee from it and journey home. Whatever distressed his servant, Arthur regarded him enough to not pry or order him to reveal what was wrong. He only hoped that Merlin had enough trust in him to share his burden as he had done on occasion.

The prince looked askance at Merlin, trying not to let him see that he was checking on him again. This part of the path through the Forest of Ascetir was wide enough for them to ride alongside each other, but they had been silent for a long while. Merlin's shoulders were slumped a little more than usual, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot once more. Arthur couldn’t help but feel for his friend and didn’t wish for him to suffer through his problems alone. The prince shifted his eyes on the road ahead out of respect, leaving Merlin to wrestle his own internal struggle.

Merlin cared was the problem. His friend fought for his righteous causes, sometimes convicting the arrogance right out of him even and humbling his princely pride. Arthur felt that this time, perhaps, his manservant had lost some important cause that sent him into despair. He knew Merlin was grief-stricken when Morgana had disappeared with the sorceress, Morgause; was the first to suggest searching the ruined castle where they’d once met the witch. His melancholy deepened when the dragon escaped its heavy chains and even apologized for the creature’s terrifying and unrelenting attacks on Camelot. It hadn’t been his fault, Arthur had told him, knowing that he’d only said it because he cared.

If that had not been enough to weigh down Merlin’s good conscience, his unhappiness turned into dark misery when the dragonlord, Balinor, while in their charge to bring him to Camelot, was killed in an ambush. Merlin had shed tears for the stranger, perhaps because the hope of saving the city had perished with the man. Their fate had turned dire in that moment: Camelot was on the brink of falling, and possibly Merlin had been there, too, so close to the edge of sorrow that his tears could not be contained. Arthur cleared his throat and shifted in his saddle, his thoughts scrambling for something to distract Merlin, some way to engage in conversation. God, he needed to talk.

“Gwen—!” Arthur blurted out, clearing his throat again when Merlin slipped him an annoyed scowl, as if the intrusion had forced him from his dark refuge and into a place where he didn’t want to be. “Er, you were right.”

“About…what?” Merlin seemed barely interested in the praise given him and it wasn’t his usual humility that muted his acceptance of it. Neither did he offer the expected snarky remark acknowledging his own intelligence. There had been very little of their battle of the wits these last few days, and Arthur missed that to his surprise. The prince pressed on, this time with more surety.

“She _is_ worthy of my love.” It felt good to say that out loud after all these months keeping his affection for the maidservant close to his breast. She had everything he desired, had wrapped around his heart unexpectedly and pulled him in before either of them could untangle themselves. Her humble nature was a beacon of light and hope and kindness in the muck of his privileged, yet rigid, life. He had no idea how stuck he’d been in the chains of society before seeing his true self through her eyes.

And perchance, meeting Merlin had something to do with his welcomed change as well.

Arthur glanced over at his servant, a small, pleased smile on the man’s lips, and maybe a little sparkle in his red-rimmed eyes. Merlin was three years younger than he, not out of his teens but much wiser than anyone his age had a right to be. Arthur smiled back, satisfied himself that his friend could climb out of his misery and appreciate his honesty regarding the delicate situation, if only for a little while.

“I knew that ever since I kissed her the first time,” Arthur admitted. She was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, mint on soft lips that had lingered on his for hours. “I’d never noticed her before Ealdor … before you stumbled into our lives.”

Merlin actually chuckled, the simple reaction easing some of the tension for both of them. Arthur continued, his own features softening to the warmth growing in his chest. “There’s so much more to her humble nature, much to be appreciated. Her bravery, her forthrightness and strength. Her intelligence.”

“Her freckles,” Merlin added, his grin wide and lopsided.

Arthur chuckled, having counted the few brown specks sprinkled across the bridge of Gwen’s nose. There were seven of them. “Yes. Her most endearing part.”

They shared a genuine laugh and Arthur felt the familiar glow of love and friendship wrap around him. Guinevere and Merlin had become so dear to him that they sometimes made him feel as if he was someone else, no barriers between them, no airs to put on.

“I think you should marry her,” Merlin dropped as if it were that simple.

It was Arthur's turn to feel the weight of despair now, and this time his shoulders slumped, the mirth in his voice dried up, the warmth in his chest dying out. “That can never be, Merlin. The worst I could do to her is take her as my mistress, and I’d never dishonor her like that. She’s much too precious and deserves to be loved unbounded.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“So am I,” the prince lamented.

“True love is the strongest magic in the world,” Merlin said, empathy oozing from him. “You and Gwen proved that. She broke that horrible spell you were under and nothing but true love could have saved you. Hold on to her, Arthur. You never know how long you’ll have her.”

There it was: one of those moments when Merlin's wisdom dug deep, hitting soft spots with gentle caution. These were perilous times. Camelot was under constant threat, be it men or beasts, and he’d frequently embarked on one dangerous mission after another, charging to the rescue as a good prince should. No one was safe for very long and Merlin was right when he advised clinging to the one you loved. Then again, nothing was more precarious than loving someone whose breeding wasn’t proper enough for the royal blood in his veins.

He cherished Gwen,  her presence alone disturbed his senses like no other woman had before and engendered a yearning in him for more. The hunter he was bred to be greatly desired to explore this forbidden and dangerous realm, to give in to his emotions; she was a challenge he longed to undertake. Oh, yes. Gwen was worthy of his love, but that didn’t mean he could act on his feelings and give it. For heaven’s sake, was he so desperate for her that he’d risk her life? He had to consider her safety above all things.

His father, the king, would be disgusted with the affair, would have her exiled, or worse, executed if he ever found out about his affection for a servant. The very thought that Uther, and others, would be abhorred by her tore at Arthur's heart. His shoulders drooped further and he sagged in his saddle. Now he’d made the both of them miserable trying to cheer up Merlin. It was like a third companion stuck with them the rest of the day and they rode in silence until they made camp, settling into chores and routines without having to say much to each other.

He took the first watch, scouting their perimeter and noting vulnerable spots, though his thoughts lingered on his manservant. Arthur’s problem with Gwen had been there from the start, a thorn he’d nursed with Merlin since his affections grew dangerously for her. Yet, Merlin, his silence was unnatural, and Arthur had no idea how to remedy it.

………………………..

It‘d been a wretched few weeks for Merlin: poisoning Morgana to save the city, releasing the dragon who’d then tried to destroy it, finding his long-lost father in a hope to control the dragon, and then losing him in an ambush less than a day later. His chest was heavy, his throat sore from choked-back tears that he didn’t want Arthur to see. His mind reeled and he wanted to scream; gods, he wanted to cry. He needed to surrender to his weariness and release his sorrows, but the man asleep under the oak would ask questions, would never understand his actions or the depth of his grief.

Merlin wandered to another tree a few paces away and leaned against it. It was nearing the end of his watch and then Arthur would take the last turn. He liked these quiet times in the woods. On their many travels, it was easy to find solitude in the wide open when he needed it, the freshness of nature a remedy to clear his mind and affording him time to think. He stuck his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small wooden carving with perfect lines and detail.

Merlin brushed his fingers along the top edged of the smooth figurine shaped like a dragon, its wings unfolded along its spine to display its grandeur. It even had horns on its tiny head. Balinor had created a beautiful, little dragon from a block of softwood, twiddled with just a small knife in only a few hours and had left it for him to find. His heart had soared upon waking and discovering the dragon beside him, a symbolic acknowledgment that Balinor had accepted him as his son. He’d barely secured the dragon in his pocket before Arthur clasped a hard hand over his mouth and warned him of trouble.

The ambush by his own kingdom’s soldiers had been bad enough, and he’d held his own dispatching one of them but had left himself open when his weapon was whacked out of his grip by another. His father had come from nowhere, had stood boldly in front of the enemy’s thrusting sword and swallowed up the blade. Balinor slumped in his arms and they both crumbled to the forest floor. Merlin’s anguish over his wounded father was so great that his sonic scream propelled his assailant backwards, killing him with sound and impact.

Moments after a few final words, Balinor died in his arms. Grief had overtaken him and Merlin couldn’t stop his tears or his stuttering breaths as he begged his father not to go. Only when Arthur's angry yell of disbelief upon seeing the fallen dragonlord had interrupted did Merlin choke back his pain.

He should have acted faster, shouldn’t have listened to his father and used magic to heal him. But he hadn’t, so shocked that the mortal injury had reduced their brief reunion to that of mere acquaintance. Fate’s cruel judgement to give and take so suddenly led Merlin to believe that it was punishment for his own heinous sins. He clasped the carved animal in his hands, his knuckles white, teeth grinding and tears hot. His mother had sins, too, and she’d have to answer to him for at least one of them.

………………………..

Merlin’s resentment had cooled the closer they came to Ealdor, the sense of familiarity and belonging soothing the fire that raged last evening, his love for his mother conquering his umbrage toward her. The hunt for meat was helpful, too, when they’d stumbled upon a colony of rabbits, providing Arthur more to eat than gruel, vegetables, or the stew he knew his mother would serve, and him a chance for distraction trying to shoot or snare them. He would have used magic if he’d been alone instead of looking foolish with a bow and arrow and giving Arthur the opportunity to demean his pitiable hunting skills. It was probably the best time they’d had the entire trip.

There was little light when they arrived in the village, a few people scrambling to take care of last minute chores before dusk pushed everyone inside and the stillness of night took over. Some candles were already glowing from windows and doors, muffled voices and activity stirring from within. They walked beside the horses, the loose dirt road not enough to absorb the clop of the hooves and anyone within earshot made an effort to look toward the new arrivals. After determining that they were not a threat and casting them various expressions, they went back to whatever they were doing in preparation for their retirement.

His mother, however, made no such effort. She’d told him long ago that by the time danger reached their doorstep from any direction, they’d know about it well beforehand. Hunith was in their home when he opened the door, dusting her hands on her smock apron before she saw them. She caught her breath, a smile growing on her lips.

“Merlin.” She rushed into his arms.

Seeing his mother always brought a smile to his face even when he was in dire straits, her loving embrace never failing to provide comfort to his ragged soul. He clung to her longer than he should have this time and Hunith drew back, that knowing look in her eyes that she recognized the same pain behind his smile that she’d seen when he was growing up. Saying nothing, she looked at Arthur standing just beyond the threshold and stepped past Merlin to extend the proper etiquette expected from a peasant.

“Prince Arthur,” she greeted, dipping into a quick curtsey. “Welcome.”

“Hunith,” Arthur replied with a tilt of his head. “Please, that’s not necessary. Call me ‘Arthur’.”

Merlin glanced at the prince and raised an eyebrow. Ever since Arthur kissed Gwen to break the love spell, he’d been more inclined to drop his title in introductions, mainly to those he considered worthy to call friend, and a few of them had been peasants. He was a living contradiction to Merlin, a noble who wanted to be common and dared to cross the boundaries of his class. He admired the prince for that. His mother acknowledged Arthur with a strained nod though her smile was warm and sincere.

“Come in,” she offered. “You must be tired from your journey.” She hooked her elbow into Merlin's and led him to a wide stump at the table as she hurried to find bowls and spoons. Memories of his childhood flooded his mind as he looked around the little hut. To his recollection, the only object missing was his sleeping pallet near his mother’s bed, but that could still be stowed under it until it was needed. His mother stood beside him, bowls and spoons in hand. “Are you hungry? There’s plenty of vegetable stew here. Prin—Arthur?”

“How about we add some rabbits to that?” Arthur asked, his pout subtle, his eyes pleading.

Merlin's eyes dropped. Arthur was sure to expect him to clean the vermin and all he’d wanted to do was talk to his mother. Arthur was his friend, but right now an intruder into a much-needed private moment with Hunith, and Merlin knew his disheartened expression must have told the prince as much. To his surprise and gratefulness, Arthur hiked a thumb over his shoulder.

“I’ll just … go and take care of them.” With a brisk nod, the prince turned on his heels and left the two of them alone.

“I like him,” Hunith said, staring after the noble. “He’s a good man.”

“So was father.” The nostalgia of being home having run its course, she’d presented an effortless opportunity to broach the tender subject, and Merlin watched for her reaction. Her back stiffened, her head still facing the direction Arthur had departed. She wrapped her arms around herself and then finally turned woeful eyes to him.

“ _Was?_ ” Hunith faced him fully now, and Merlin could see that she already believed his father was dead. He lowered his head and stared at his arms outstretched on the table.

“Camelot was attacked by a dragon that I’d set free.”

“Kilgharrah.”

Merlin shot his mother a resentful glare. Of course, she’d known about the dragon, yet had chosen to keep tales of it to herself and had denied him any knowledge of his father’s magnificent life. Without question, Balinor’s final years were loneliness, fearful, and full of hardship, but he’d tamed dragons, had magic, and had been a part of the greatest conflict of their time. How he’d longed to hear stories about his formidable years, growing up amongst other dragonlords, being mentored by his own father. _Anything_.

“When we were alone,” Hunith began and advanced towards the table to lower herself on the stump opposite of him. She placed the bowls and spoons near the table’s edge and then her hands in her lap. “In the quiet, when the world was still and it was just the two of us, he’d talk about the dragons. How glorious and terrifying they were; how they once commanded the skies and humbled even the greatest warriors. Of how he’d betrayed Kilgharrah by trusting the word of a tyrant. He was broken for so long and felt as if he’d lost his purpose in life. Wherever he was, I prayed he’d find forgiveness within himself.”

“We’ll never know, Mother.” His stare was direct and hard, letting his own feelings concerning her betrayal overtake him instead of sparing her. He’d asked after his father many times as a young lad, always envying the other children whose fathers had played with them, taught them things, tucked them in at night while he was frowned upon because he hadn’t had one. Some of the older kids had called him a bastard. Those times had been especially hard on him, some of his memories of home not very pleasant to remember. A tear fell down his mother’s cheek which she quickly wiped away, and Merlin, the ever-obedient son, lowered his eyes, his defiance seeping out of him at the hurt he caused his mother.

“Arthur and I went to find him,” he said, his voice soft, yet strained. “He was living in a cave, like a hermit. He was all alone for nineteen years and … and less than four days’ journey from here.”

Hunith held her cheek, her blue eyes full of tears. “So close. All these years.” She covered her choking sobs, and after a moment, exhaled a stuttering breath. “I loved him with all my heart and wanted to go to him, to share his burden. He wouldn’t allow it, of course, said that what he had to do was no life for a woman. Neither of us knew about you until after his sacrifice. I’d hoped he’d come back to us, but I know he feared for me more than he did for himself and refused to risk my life.”

Merlin swallowed, his voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He’d always accepted her calm reasonings of why he was fatherless—that urgent things had sent him away. That he was likely dead, killed on his mission of valor. Those had not been easy words to hear as a young lad, that his nameless father would never return. He’d accepted it the older he grew, having no choice since his mother had refused to speak any further on it. Still, the emptiness of never knowing left a gaping hole in his life that she had to have understood. “Why was it so important to stay silent?”

Hunith shrugged, shaking her head as regret clouded her features. “Because of a vow. The Purge in Camelot raged for many years. It was a horrible time to be alive whether you were a sorcerer or not. Many fled over our borders, some bringing news of the terrible things that were happening, others seeking sanctuary from the persecutions. Few had remained here, often staying long enough for a meal and a bed for the night. We had very little to offer, though we shared what we could. One man, a young man in tattered and soiled clothes handed me a letter and then collapsed where he stood. I was able to get him inside and saw that he’d been injured in the shoulder. The wound had been dressed but had festered. He had a fever and was delirious for a time. I’d forgotten all about the letter in my effort to heal him. It wasn’t until the next day that I remembered. It was from Gaius and he wrote of the nobility of this man, that he needed protection. He implored for secrecy, and on my life, for my safety and his, his identity must never be known.”

“Surely, not from his own son.”

“Especially from his son. Merlin, times were perilous, distrust and suspicion stirred many hearts. If you’d ever uttered his name, someone could have recognized it and I feared for your life. He was a dragonlord, a fugitive. Camelot soldiers patrolled our borders, some of them ventured into the village so many times that Balinor was eventually forced to leave.”

“I had a right to know,” Merlin insisted, unmoved.

“Of course, you did,” she said, covering his hand with hers. “And I’m sorry for not having enough faith in you to tell you about him.”

“A few days, Mother. That’s all the time we had before he was killed.” He allowed bitter tears to fall through the icy glare he had for her. She withdrew her hand, more water forming on the edges of her lids again.

“What happened, Merlin?”

His closed his eyes, releasing more moisture down his cheeks, his lips drawn in a tight frown. “We were attacked by Escetir soldiers. We hadn’t provoked them; we’d caused no trouble. We didn’t appear as bandits or—or criminals. Why did they have to do that?” He’d played these words over in his head a hundred times, wrestling to find a reason why it had to happen at all. Sometimes, he’d blame Arthur, that the soldiers must have recognized their enemy. Sometimes, he blamed Balinor for taking the blade and not allowing him to save him. Sometimes, he blamed the gods for their constant meddling in the destinies of men, their cruel assaults to test his mettle in particular. Mostly, he blamed himself. He should have just used magic instead of trying to be a hero. He was no swordsman. But by the gods, he knew how to defend himself. He just wasn’t quick enough. “Father died saving me and with all my magic I couldn’t save him. I failed him, Mother.”

“Oh, my dear child.”

Merlin reached a trembling hand into his inner pocket, drawing out the wooden dragon and placing it on the table surface between them. “He made this. He passed on his gift as a dragonlord to me when he died, Mother. It’s not right to inherit such a wondrous gift on the occasion of a father’s death. Did you know that would happen?”

Hunith nodded a stiff response. “He said he’d come into his gift when his father died. You were destined to be a dragonlord, Merlin. You are your father’s son.”

“As much as I want to understand his absence and your vow, you were both wrong and it hurts that you, Mother, never considered my feelings; how hard it was for me growing up without him. I could have learned so much from him, from you.”

“I know,” she squeaked.

“I had a right to know!” he seethed. He’d spat the same words at Gaius, furious that his mentor had known, had orchestrated the meeting of his parents and had never once made him the wiser. Hunith hung her head, unable to look at him, tears falling in her lap. “I’ll honor his legacy to the best of my ability but this—” he picked up the little dragon and caressed it in his hands. “—I’ll cherish more than anything.”

Hunith bolted from her seat and pulled Merlin to his feet, clinging to him in a trembling embrace, her years of truths owed to him and his yearning for his father culminating in wracking sobs for both of them.

 “I’m so sorry, Merlin,” she wept. “There’s so much more to tell you.”

“I’d like that very much.” Merlin buried his head in his mother’s shoulder and swore he felt his father’s arms around them. This was all he’d ever wanted.

………………………..

Arthur didn’t mean to eavesdrop on their private moment; he was taught better and knew it was wrong. But when he heard Hunith mention the name “Balinor”, he stopped in his tracks, curious why they’d be speaking of a dead stranger. What was he to her? _“Forced to leave”_? _What on earth--?_

He forced his thoughts from straying too far to listen to their conversation, his chest growing heavy, his throat tightening with anger. His mind reeled at the words they spoke, the secrets in their hearts laid bare, and the reason for Merlin's despondency these last few weeks. Arthur ground his teeth, his eyes hooded with fury.

Balinor being his long, lost father and inheriting the dragonlord legacy were bad enough. He’d likely controlled the beast in that final encounter last week, setting it free instead of ensuring its death. The worst part was that Merlin had just admitted to having magic as well, and all those unexplained events of some fantastic save made horrible, sickening sense to Arthur now.

He stepped through the doorway, three skinned rabbits dangling in hand, and waited long enough for them to sense his presence. Still wrapped in their embrace, he didn’t interrupt their tender moment. He could find no words anyway. Hunith saw him first, her weeping subsiding as she lifted her head. Merlin looked at her puzzled and then followed her line of sight. Both their faces were red, swollen, and wet with tears, but turned wary when they perceived his provocative countenance.

Arthur swallowed the hot resentment searing through his entire body. “I think there’s something you need to tell me, Merlin.”

                                                                                                     _fin_


End file.
